


Apples

by Sad Boy Hours (DoctorMonsterLove)



Category: Dead by Daylight (Video Game), Halloween (Movie)
Genre: Dead by Daylight - Freeform, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Halloween, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Self-Comfort, Short, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, personal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-19
Updated: 2018-07-19
Packaged: 2019-06-12 21:19:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15348969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoctorMonsterLove/pseuds/Sad%20Boy%20Hours
Summary: Wrote something to calm myself down earlier. The title came from exactly what set me off in the first place. Doc accidentally hurts himself and just loses it.





	Apples

It’s about 3 or 4 am on a Wednesday, and lately nothing was interesting to me. Everything seemed dumb and pointless. A few days ago, everything was amazing. I cleaned the house spotless, did all laundry and dishes, took a nice hot shower and pampered myself with chocolate, but now? Now everything seemed, well, dull.  
  
I sit there, my form slouching into the couch as I simply stared up at the ceiling. Literally nothing in the world could make me feel better right now. Music didn’t work, I didn’t want to talk to people, I didn’t want to go outside, didn’t want to exercise, I didn’t want to do anything but sit here. This couch isn’t even comfortable. I sigh and sink even further into the cushions.  
  
A presence washes over me, and I immediately know it’s Michael. I know he’s somewhere behind me, lurking, most likely wondering what happened to my usual carefree persona. I huff and stand myself up, walking past him and into the kitchen. Reaching into the cabinet, I pull out a cutting board and knife, grabbing an apple and slamming it down onto the board. I start cutting, curling my fingers behind the blade to prevent my fingers from being sliced. I look up, thinking I’d see Michael, but I see no one there. Damn, he was good at hiding. I end up slipping into my own thoughts for a moment. Everything was angry, my head was filled with this rushing pressure that made my eyes burn. I couldn’t stop these thoughts from flooding my head, there were just so many. Memories, flashbacks, words, people; my inner voice conflicting with myself, screaming, yelling at me about many things that have happened in the past. There’s so much pressure. Too much.  
  
“Gh-! Ah, fuck!” I shriek, dropping the knife on the kitchen floor, hot, red blood steadily flowing from my thumb.  
  
In shock, I let out a few breathy gasps, which turn into heavy sobs. With my good hand, I grab the rest of the apple and chuck it across the room with a guttural yell, not seeing what it hit but definitely shattering something glass. I back up until my back hits the counter, and I slide down all the way to the floor, spatters of blood speckling the tile. I wail loudly, clutching my bloodied hand and not holding back anything anymore. The cut doesn’t even hurt, there’s just so much nondescript emotion coming over me, there’s no control whatsoever. The entire room, all around me feels hot, like a boiling, searing, sauna hiked up to one thousand degrees. I kick my feet repeatedly into the island cupboards and slam the back of my head on the doors behind me.  
  
Hushed, but quick footsteps come from the hall, and I take a glimpse upwards to see Michael, his own knife in hand and prepared for some sort of attacker or intruder. I bring my knees to my chest and put my head into my knees, muffling my sobs. My arms are wrapped around the front of me, and I can feel the blood from my thumb dripping onto my feet.  
  
I clamp my eyes shut, and continue to slam my head backwards. A few moments pass by, and at some point, I realize the back of my head isn’t hitting the cabinet wall anymore, but rather something… squishier. A hand. I stop smacking my head and slowly open my eyes, turning to the side to see Michael, his eyes barely visible through his mask and his hand behind my head. I let out a few sharp sobs, looking at him with blurred vision.  
  
“What, what do you-” I mumble, inhaling sharply and angrily shouting in his face, “What do you want?”  
  
Michael flinched, but didn’t move.  
  
I repeated, “Michael, what the fuck do you want?!”  
  
With one swift motion, his hand shot up and ripped off his mask, his eyes wide and eyebrows knitted together in a mixture of emotions. His lips were pursed, and it was obvious he was worried. Worried, confused, angry, maybe even a little frightened. The tears start flowing again, and without thinking, I lean myself forward and put my head in his lap, making him jump slightly. I knew he has an aversion to touch, but in this moment, I wasn’t thinking. I sobbed into his lap, even harder when he started petting my hair calmly.  
  
“God, I’m sorry, Michael, I- I didn’t mean to- I didn’t mean to yell at- at you…” The room begins to cool down and my sobs are reduced to shaky breaths. His hand just continues to brush through my hair, and I kept repeating apologies until it faded into barely audible murmurs. We both sat there, sitting on the kitchen floor for a few hours, until the sun began to rise again.


End file.
